


The Price of Life

by SoulOfSnow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulOfSnow/pseuds/SoulOfSnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roslin and Edmure post red wedding</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Price of Life

**Author's Note:**

> Edmure and Roslin are sent off to consummate their marriage, and Roslin must deal with the guilt of the secret she's been told to keep.

They strip her in the usual wedding fashion, and slip Roslin under the sheets of her marital bed. The Greatjon is the most eager, and his hand lingering on her leg just a fraction of a second longer than the rest does not go unnoticed. Roslin tries to convince herself that is cause enough to justify what he will soon endure, but her heart fails her.

Edmure slips into the room; only a few candles illuminate his figure, but in the dim lighting Roslin can see he is hard, and he obviously wants her. She clings to the sheets around her chest and holds them tight; trying to swallow the lump in her throat that threatens to have her erupt into tears. "My lord." She says by way of greeting, but Edmure does not smile. 

"There is no need for formalities now, Roslin. You are my wife." His final spoken word lingers in the darkness like heavy dust clinging to her skin. Edmure's shadow casts a monster behind his back; poised and ready to strike. Roslin considers all those that might replace that shadow with a blade.  _Father, Ryman, Black Walder, Benfrey, even Roose Bolton. He is in this too._ She cannot help but cry now and shake like a leaf in an autumn wind. 

Edmure approaches her cautiously, and Roslin flinches. "Please, don't my lord, I beg you." she whimpers, and as he attempts to console her she wrenches free the sheet from the mattress and clambers off the bed. 

"Roslin? What’s wrong?" Edmure sits as naked as his name day on the edge of the bed. He looks displeased, and Roslin's heart breaks. Unable to speak between fits of tears, she can only sob with her back pressed against the cold stone wall. "Look Roslin, you must listen to me," Edmure sighs and clears his throat "I know I am not King Robb, and must seem a disappointment to you. But I am your husband now, and we must consummate this marriage."

Roslin's eyes dart towards the door. She can hear the bards playing their music louder than usual, and their shadows dance across the wall through the tiny window at the top of the door. "You must go, my lord. You have to go." 

Edmure frowns. "Are you afraid? Roslin, they cannot hurt you now, I am here."  _You sweet fool; it is not me they intend to hurt._ Roslin only shakes her head. "Which one of your siblings has hurt you? Tell me and we will bring him here and settle this now."

"No! No you mustn't!" Roslin edges towards the bed with a pleading look in her eyes. Tears stream down her face but she does not sob. "Forgive me, my lo--... forgive me Edmure, I am being foolish." She smiles softly and wipes her eyes, but Edmure does not seem convinced. 

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes I am quite sure," Roslin carefully straddles his lap and lets the sheets slip down passed her shoulders "I will be a good wife, I promise." And there she sits, unsure what a good wife should do. Edmure's fingers dance through her long brown hair and trace down her neck, before he pulls her down into a kiss. The sudden motion makes her gasp, but her breath is lost against his lips.

At first he is gentle, but as Roslin’s mouth relents, Edmure feels the urge to slip his tongue between her lips and kiss her with more and more passion. His cock ruts against her leg and outside the bards play louder. For a while they envelop her in sound and fear and regret; she whispers her guilt between kisses and when Edmure opens his eyes she thinks he has heard her.

“I have been a vain and childish man,” he says, and as he kisses her nose his beard scratches against her skin “forgive my apprehension, Roslin. I could not be happier that I have found you, and fallen in love with you already.”

Her lips pull up into a fragile smile, but soon falter. Worried she may be giving away her own apprehension, Roslin cups Edmure’s cheek; burying her thumb within the tangles of his fierce red beard. _So much hope for the future in your bright blue eyes._ Roslin knows the risk her husband faces, and how it all rests on this night. _“Keep him happy, keep him busy”_ they had said _“and you keep him alive”._ She has only known Edmure a short while but already she feels compelled to protect him in the only way she knows how: with silence. She kisses him with the tenderness of a lover, and she allows herself to relax against his chest. She doesn’t deserve this; a part of her wishes he’d be overpowering, demanding, forceful. At least then she might have some cause to resent him and wish him ill (though that would not justify his family suffering).

But instead he is kind and sensitive; laying her back against the pillows with such caution and consideration you’d think him the maid. And he takes his time to show her how wonderful all this can feel when he slips a finger inside her and allows her to adjust to the strange sensation. She knows he’s desperate to do the deed, but Edmure shows restraint enough to pleasure her a while before he enters her, and when he at last does so he smothers her sharp intake of breath with kisses and is slow and understanding.

She is so lost inside this little world that the bards cease to play. The heaviness of Edmure’s breath is a sweeter song; the little moans of pleasure they exchange whenever he sheathes himself fully inside her, or if she dares to lift her hips beneath him. He kisses her neck and along her shoulder while his hands explore the parts of her body no one has touched before. Every bruise her brother’s rough-housing has given her is replaced by a flurry of little kisses, and Roslin is surprised that Edmure can be so light and gentle. With him looming over her now, she realises just how great he is in comparison to her Rosby genes. His broad shoulders feel firm beneath her hands; his chest is strong and in the darkness she can feel the tufts of dark red hair that grows there. He is muscular but lean and she notes how he rests on his elbows to prevent from smothering her under him.

She had not expected to climax on her first time; she feels herself contracting and stifles her cries against Edmure’s shoulder, digging her heels into the mattress though they slip and she scrambles to find her footing again. He holds her close and buries his face in her hair, rolling forward as slides himself inside her one last time. It’s painful, but a sweet hurt that is dulled as she comes to her senses. This time she feels the full weight of him on top of her as he collapses exhausted against her. When at last he lifts his head; Edmure’s cheeks are as red as his hair, and she laughs at the exasperated look on his face.

Resting on an elbow with his head resting in his hand, Edmure lays beside her with a leg settled between hers. Roslin catches a glimpse of the blood on her thighs and immediately feels dirty, but Edmure doesn’t seem to mind, or even really notice. He runs a hand down her temple and through her hair. In the silence, the bards seem to begin again, and it reminds her of her duty. But now, she has created a duty of her own. _Keep him alive. Keep him safe._ “I heard a story about you once.”

Edmure smiles. “You did?”

“Well, it was more of a song.” She notes in the dim light how his face drops, and oddly enough it makes her smile. Of course he’d be annoyed to learn she’d heard Tom of Seven’s mocking song. She lifts herself up and kisses his cheek. “Tom was quite wrong.” He smiles again then.

“I wonder if a song will be sung about our wedding day, of how the Lord of the Riverlands met his beautiful wife.” He sits up suddenly and Roslin reaches for him as he stands up off the bed and heads towards the little table in the corner of the room where a flagon of wine has been placed.

“Edmure-…” she pulls the sheet up over her naked breasts; her heart races with a sudden rush of fear. _Keep him alive. Keep him safe._

“I hope not, I fucking hate bards.” He takes a sip “Do they have to play so loud? Gods, I can’t hear myself think!” He suddenly lunges for the door and she thinks he might attempt to open it. She knows they’re locked in, and just a few metres away guards have been posted. She knows that Edmure Tully is already a prisoner.

But Edmure doesn’t. He slams his fist against the large oak door. “Be quiet! Be quiet out there!”

“Edmure please,” she crawls to the end of the bed and grasps his hand. From the little window she can see the shadows moving “come back to bed.” He turns towards her with a lusting look playing along his face just as one of the guards appears to check on the commotion. She speaks louder this time. “Come and lie down with me.”

“Have I not pleased my little wife enough already?” He climbs back onto the mattress on his knees, finishing his cup of wine and tossing it across the room. His large stature boxes her in against the pillows and she feels small and insignificant again. Behind him, Roslin sees the guard disappear.

The second time he takes her it is not so enjoyable. Edmure is no less kind or gentle, but the Rains of Castamere plays through the window and swallows the silence like a serpent with its prey. Each great _boom_ from the drums makes her jump, and Edmure moans a little louder from her involuntary movements. When at last he finishes inside her, she is thankful that he rolls off and falls asleep instantly (mid-kiss of her brow). She has had to supress her desire to cry again the entire time, but now she can sob silently in the darkness without alarming him.

When he wakes, they will take him. They will lock him in a cell and leave him there. And she will have known, and she still said nothing. _I have to keep him alive. I have to keep him safe._ Was it worth it? Would he understand? “No” she thinks to herself sombrely “he will never understand.”

 _Boom, boom, boom._ The music stops; the massacre is at an end.


End file.
